Well, that’s just embarrassing. They’ve somehow managed to Photoshop my abs onto this woman’s body. I tell ya.

It was a baby shower for my dear friend, Roslyn.  A handful of friends had gathered at a local restaurant to celebrate the impending birth of her second son with a delicious lunch and plenty of wine (for those of us not pregnant, of course).  As we awaited our lunch, Ros opened the gifts we’d each brought, including mine: a sweet little pinstripe golf cap.

“Oooooh!” Ros gushed.  “This will be our hat for trips to San Luis Obispo.”  I should mention that Ros lives in a town about fifteen miles south of San Luis Obispo called Arroyo Grande, which is completely charming.

“Wait,” I interrupted, “why is this hat for trips to SLO?”

“Because,” Ros said matter-of-factly, “it’s a posh little cap and one’s kids have to look exceptionally posh in SLO.”

Two of the other moms who live in Arroyo Grande chimed in excitedly.  “Geez, that’s so true!” said Kayla.  “At parks in AG your kid can wear any old clothes to run around in, but in SLO you have to dress them like little celebrity babies – all name brand and spotless.”

“Yeah, and they have to arrive in a B.O.B. stroller drinking from their perfect little Kleen Kanteen sippy cup.”  Giggle, giggle.

“And as a mom, you have to wear giant sunglasses and hold a cup of coffee from some hipster coffee shop.” Laugh, laugh.

“Ooh, and wear spandex of some kind!  Or at least designer jeans that cost a fortune.  And you have to sit and discuss preschool at UMCC and how much you love Doctor Awesome.” Guffaw, guffaw.

I sat there, mouth agape, stunned that these women had such underdog-ish and defensive thoughts about my beloved town.  I was also stunned at how spot-on accurate they were at describing, well….me and all my SLO mommy friends.  While I don’t own a B.O.B. and Seabass is far from spotless and posh at the park, he does have a Kleen Kanteen sippy, he is on the waiting list for UMCC preschool, I frequent a certain hipster coffee joint and have a slight weakness for designer jeans.  So sue me, AG moms.

But do not mess with Doctor Awesome.  Or I will have to kill you.

There is good reason to love Dr. Awesome so much, and it ain’t just his clever name.  Dr. Awesome has been a pillar of San Luis Obispo society since the dawn of time, it seems.  He was actually my pediatrician as a child* – a fact that, when I remind him of it, makes him smack his forehead and say, “Has it really been that long?!?”  He has an uncanny knack for making moms and dads feel he’s listening to what they’re saying, and he tends to diagnose their kids’ problem accurately.  What a concept.

Aside from the fact that I’ve known him forever, that he’s a cool guy who has five sons of his own, is passionate about hiking, and drives a restored cherry red VW bus, I think the thing I like most about our beloved Dr. Awesome is that he always asks me how I am doing when we arrive at his office for the billionth time to treat Seabass’ diaper rash, hand-foot-and-mouth disease, or bronchial infection.  And there’s something in his delivery – perhaps it’s the eye contact, or the gentle handshake, or the warm smile – that makes me believe he really does want to know how I’m doing.  His willingness to sit with me for however long and discuss Seabass or motherhood in general is a gift of caring that you don’t often see in a physician, unfortunately.  And while I’ve never been through a crisis with my precious Seabass, I have friends whose kids have battled drug addiction, mental illness, and life-threatening situations alongside Dr. Awesome, only to declare him even more of a saint at the end of the day.

EcoBambino: The epicenter of SLO mommy activity.

So look.  Make fun of me all you want.  Tease me for swearing by Aden + Anais organic muslin swaddlers, or for having a Sophie-the-$25-giraffe-made-from-Amazonian-rubber teething toy, or for buying cloth diapers from EcoBambino.  I seriously do not care.

But if you tease me for gushing about Dr. Awesome, I have no choice but to assume you are as jealous as you absolutely should be.

*Footnote: When I was 16 years old, I went in to see Dr. Awesome because I suffered from massive chest pains.  I had been over-committing, as usual, teaching a dozen young piano students, taking a full load of advanced placement courses (and not doing too well at any of them), memorizing ungodly amounts of Shakespeare as the lead in the school play, learning to drive, and preparing for a countywide piano competition.  When my mom brought me in, Dr. Awesome asked about my symptoms, felt around my sternum, and checked my blood pressure.  Then he looked at me knowingly and said, “Have you undergone any stress lately, Jaime?”  Tears came squirting out of my face.  “Yes!” I blubbered, helplessly.  “Hmm,” he mused. “I see in you a syndrome that we usually only see in, say, Olympic gymnasts or ballet dancers.  It’s called Tietze’s syndrome, and it’s basically a benign infalmmation of the chest exacerbated by stress.  I suggest you ditch one or two of your activities and get more sleep.”

Wait – is she really going to name her child based on her blog comments?

Of course not, weirdo.  We’ve got our daughter’s name under control, thanks.

Find a happy place! Find a happy place!

No, this post pertains to her nickname.  Seabass was named after a minor (but memorable) character in the award-winning film, Dumb and Dumber.  (Read more about that here.)  Now we’re looking for inspiration to nickname his new baby sister.  Points will be awarded for creativity and unwillingness to bend to gender assumptions.  E.g. the nickname “Bulldog” would definitely trump “Kitten” or “Sweet Pea.”  The winner will be awarded a virtual high-five from me and the eternal satisfaction of knowing that he or she has contributed to the embarrassment of one of our children.

Suggestions must be made on this blog as a comment (not on Facebook).  And if we don’t take a liking to any of them, we reserve the right to scrap the whole contest altogether.

Happy brainstorming!!!

Quick update: Sorry for not writing anything these past few weeks.  Our internet has been up and down intermittently (thanks, AT&T!) so it’s been tough to get anything that resembles a post going.  Some people have even called/emailed to ask if I’ve had the baby!  But no such luck.  I am still freaking huge and ready to pop, but I’m due in just 13 days, so it could really be any minute now…

You know, mummy, I think you’re right. This isn’t an Italian plum – it’s a *Burgundy* plum.

As a parent who also happens to be a food and wine writer, there are few things that delight me more than watching my son eat well.  And by “well” I don’t mean kale and kombucha.  I mean with gusto, with appreciation, and with a sense of adventure.

To watch Seabass dig into a ripe tomato – brilliant red juice covering his collar, his elbows, his belly button – is to witness the divine. I have several friends whose kids won’t even look at anything that doesn’t come from a squeezy tube purchased at Costco.  My younger brother went through a very long phase growing up in which he would eat nothing but reheated corn dogs.  And Seabass’ own daddy, my beloved Jake, refused to eat both bread and tomatoes as a child, I’m told, instead preferring a diet of Dr. Pepper and Cool Ranch Doritos.

Seabass, thank God, isn’t all that thrilled with standard kid-pleasers like Kraft mac and cheese, hot dogs, or bologna.  He eats what we eat with very few exceptions.  Earlier this week, it was a budin azteca, complete with roasted poblano peppers, onions, spinach, queso fresco and black beans.  Then it was grilled chicken paillards with nectarine chutney, grilled fennel with lemon, and barley with toasted cumin and mint.  Last week, we had friends over for pizza and when someone offered him salad, he peered into the bowl and suggested that more tomatoes be added.

Part of Seabass’ food-awareness may come from the fact that I love to cook and that I let him sit on the counter to watch me do it every night.  This ritual fills several important desires, namely Seabass’ desire to see EVERYTHING Mama is doing and my own desire to host a cooking show.  It is a total win-win: I rattle on and on about the superiority of mincing garlic by hand to that of using a garlic press, and my audience is nearly always a captivated one.  Plus, there is the occasional bite of cheese or opportunity to stir.

Don’t get me wrong: the kid enjoys a heaping bowl of cereal or PB&J sandwich.  And I’m certain there are some foods he’d like more exposure to: maple syrup and juice come immediately to mind. (We recently visited an apple farm and tasted the fresh-pressed cider.  It was slightly embarrassing how Seabass licked the inside of his Dixie cup and threatened to tear it at the seams to gain better access to any remaining molecules he may have missed.)  But when he recognizes the difference between cous cous and quinoa, when he chooses to eat the roasted broccoli off his plate before anything else, when he requests more balsamic vinegar on his lettuce, I can’t help but beam with pride.  It gives me hope that some day he’ll share an espresso with me, an IPA, or a pastis.  That’s a day I look forward to with great anticipation.

A friend recently passed along this outstanding blog post from Honest Toddler called “Recipes.”  If you have, or have ever had, a toddler, you will want to read this letter from an earnest toddler to his parents on how to feed him.  EXACTLY how to feed him.

My own dear Seabass is, thank the Lord, a pretty good eater.  Scratch that – a championship eater.  But he occasionally gets fussy about the lack of symmetry in his blueberry  muffin, or the temperature of his tomatoes.  This excerpt from the “Recipes” post sums up what toddlers want us to know about food quite nicely.

Excerpt:

Dinnertime is hard for all of us and I know why: you have terrible recipes. I’ve compiled several of my favorites below. Please print them out and put them on a fridge using a magnet. When it’s time for cooking, follow it and don’t get creative.

Honest Toddler Approved Recipes

1. Toast with Butter

Hold on to your seat! This is a yummy one!!

Step 1: Find an unbroken piece of perfect bread with no rips.

Step 2: Put in toaster. Don’t get distracted by a Facebook fight you have no business participating in.

Step 3: When toast pops out, INSPECT IT. Is it a uniform golden brown color? Is it still intact? If not, return to Step 1.

Step 4. Butter toast liberally.

Step 5: Ask toddler how he or she would like toast prepared or cut. Don’t make assumptions. You don’t know anything about anything.

Step 6: Serve toast.

Step 7: Has toddler changed their mind about toast? Does toddler want cut up toast to be whole again? Repair toast with your mind. If you’re not powerful enough, return to Step 1 AS MANY TIMES AS IT TAKES DON’T BE LAZY

Honest Toddler deserves a standing ovation for their accuracy on this one.  “Repair toast with your mind.”  Sure thing, darling!  I’ll get right on that.

Jake recently took a photo of my belly, and yowsa!  What a belly it is.

I thought it might be fun to compare and contrast my Seabass belly with the one I’m wearing lately.

April 3, 2010. Five weeks before Seabass hatched.

August 12, 2012. Five weeks before #2 is due.

I gather a few things from this comparison.

1. With Baby #2, I’m definitely bigger, but not embarassingly so.
2. Hey hey, first time mom – easy on the Vitamin E oil!  The shine on that bump could blind someone.
3. I need some new maternity tops.

If Seabass is telling the truth, he hasn’t pooped in about four months.  Lucky for him, I don’t trust a word he says when it comes to his own bowel movements.

It goes like this: he’s playing or eating or dancing or whatever toddlers do all day, and he suddenly announces “NO POOP.”  I have learned by trial and error that this means he is, in fact, pooping.  Like, right then and there.

I don’t know how this blatant lying became de rigeur at our house, but it really hit its zenith this week when Seabass stopped playing with his tractors and grunted – literally, grunted – “NO [strain] POOP.  [strain] NO POOP, MAMA.”

Liar, liar, pants en fuego.

A lot of you have asked how the babymoon went, and I’m happy to report that it was 100% blissful. Even the Batman marathon. Though, I admit, I wasn’t exactly conscious through the entire thing. Here’s a (very grainy and dark) shot of me enjoying a nap between movies. And yes, that’s me laying on the disgusting carpet of the Fremont Theater.

Lately, people have been so nice to me.  Really.  They tell me I look beautiful, compliment my growing belly, smile, and hold the door open for me much longer than is necessary. Their kindness, I can tell, is completely involuntary, giving me hope for the future of the human race.

There’s just one slight problem.  They often ask me “How are you feeling?”

I want to glow.  I want to grin and say, “Terrific!” and keep the conversation moving.  But I just can’t. Because, truth is, I am in utter agony most of the time.

At last count, I’ve gained 28 pounds since conception of this new baby, and thought that’s an enviable weight gain at 7.5 months pregnant, my body is crumbling under the weight.  For a while, I would take hour-long walks to keep the gestational diabetes – and cabin fever – at bay.  But lately, I haven’t been able to muster it.  My legs won’t lift to take the next step, so I sort of shuffle like an old man.  Plus there’s the threat that I’ll soil myself along the way – which *has* happened, friends.  Without antihistimines to curb my allergies, a sneeze is a constant, imminent threat to my dignity, not to mention my pants.

And then there’s the pressure.

Look, I’m not going to sugar-coat it.  I gave birth to a big kid just two years ago.  My body never snapped back entirely from the trauma of pushing a 9-pound Seabass out.  Hence, with a whole new sack of potatoes bearing down on my “parts,” there is a good amount of discomfort and fear that I will split wide open and give birth every time I so much as sit on a toilet.  Plus, there’s my bottom.  I will not give details (you’re welcome) but suffice it to say that I’m consuming my legal limit of All Bran cereal.

Oh, and I think easing down into the seat of a car without shedding a tear or breaking a sweat should be considered an Olympic event.  Just a suggestion.

And here is a shot of me golfing on the babymoon. Feel free to comment on my form. And then shove it.

There are other things.  The nightly back spasms if I’ve picked Seabass up more than three times all day.  The chafing of my thighs.  (I actually Googled “help with inner thigh chafing” and came across this post on “The Big Girl Blog:” Prevent Inner Thigh Chafing – No More Chub Rub!)  Oh, and I’m exhausted all the freaking time, but I can’t sleep.

Here’s the silver lining:

• I’ve gained 28 pounds, not 100
• I’m not dying, I just feel like it
• I’m not on bedrest – then again, would that be so bad?
• As of August 1, I can now truthfully say I’m due next month
• At the end of this all, I’ll hold a precious baby girl in my arms
• Did I mention that people are being really, really nice to me?

 Seabass has undergone an explosion of vocabulary lately, though I doubt anyone but Jake or me would notice.  Much of the time, his words resemble Vulcan more than English.

“mee-moon” = oatmeal

“moon” =  more

“acorn” = motorcycle or popcorn

“heh-kolore” = helicopter

“tuckatoo!” = rooster

“better daddy” = peanut butter and jelly

“ooh-ick” = music

All the same, it blows our minds how talkative he can be. Something else is blowing our minds lately, too: his bossiness.

“Mama, fold these.”

“You, here.  Mama, sit here.  Daddy, sit here.  No, Daddy!  Drink water, Daddy.  Say ‘ah,’ Daddy.  Mama, say ‘ah.’ Go away Murph! Be right back, Mama.  BE RIGHT BACK, MAMA.”

It’s sort of adorable to see a two-year-old conducting traffic around our house the way he does.  Speaking from the perspective of a fellow first-born child, I can appreciate what he’s trying to accomplish.  Everything needs to be done HIS way because without HIS way, everything would fall to pieces.  I totally get that.

However, it’s also sort of obnoxious.  If we happen to pass a house whose trash cans have blown over, there is no escaping the machine gun fire of orders from Seabass to pick it up.  “Mama, uh-oh.  Mama, pick up.  Mama, pick up!”

The sad part is, usually I do as I’m told.  I mean, the kid’s got a point.